


My Empire of Dirt

by gonzosgirrl (q_dicted)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e22 Devil's Trap, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Major Character Death(ish), Post-Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Season/Series 10, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_dicted/pseuds/gonzosgirrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cain's prophecy is inevitable. What would Dean Winchester give to change things?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Empire of Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> Canon through 10x14, then all bets are off.

_And you could have it all  
My empire of dirt  
I will let you down  
I will make you hurt_  
                   ~ _Hurt,_ © _T.Reznor._

  
*********************************

 _“This may be hard to believe in light of what I’m about to do to you, but I care about you Dean, I truly do. I know I’m doing you a favor. I’m saving you.”_  
  
_“Saving me from what?”_  
  
_“From your fate.”_

  
*********************************

The Mark has stolen many things from Dean. His soul was merely the first.  
  
Sam returned that to him, one vial of sanctified blood at a time, but the darkness left a stain that can never be fully be cleansed. It cast a long shadow, slowly but surely dulling his senses to all that is good and simple and pure: the near-orgasmic pleasure of a really great cheeseburger, the sweet smell of carnauba as he brings his baby to high-gloss perfection in the hot July sun; the slow, satisfying burn of ten-year-old single malt on his tongue. The smallest things, all but lost to him now. Things that can’t be measured by any scale. Things that made him human.  
  
But there are some things, some sense-memories that are honed to a razor’s edge, their taste and texture so sharp he could bleed the world with them. The exhilaration he felt as Abaddon fell, her life force snapping and burning before him. The coppery taste of the blood that painted the walls of a seedy house in Pontiac, Illinois. The impossibly soft whisper of his last hope dying as the Blade separated Cain’s head from his body.  
  
And now this. The shrieking, soul-killing sound that seems to erupt from the depths of Hell itself. Only fitting, he supposes. After all, its King lies dead at Dean’s feet.  
  
_“Have you never mused upon the fact that you’re living my life in reverse?”_  
  
Dean stares mutely at the Blade in his hand, Crowley’s blood still bubbling like acid where it pools at the hilt. Long live the King.

***********************************

Dean stands alone, his body thrumming with the dark energy that spikes his blood as only one thing can now. Two corpses this time, beaten bloody and killed with their own blades. Sentinels charged with guarding the weapon, hidden from him again after Crowley. Remorse takes longer to set in these days and he feels nothing as he steps over their bodies to retrieve what is rightfully his. There is barely a heartbeat between the visceral thrill of the Blade in his hand again, and the familiar rustle of beating wings. In the moment before he turns around, Dean feels. He feels. _Please don't make me do this._ But as it ever was, no one hears his plea.  
  
“I know what you’re planning. I can’t let you do it, my friend. I _promised_ you I wouldn’t. Give me the Blade, Dean.”  
  
It’s the utter surprise in Castiel’s eyes that hurts the most. The knowledge that even after all they have been through, together and separately, the angel still has faith in Dean. To his last breath, Castiel believes that the righteous man he dragged out of Hell still exists. He believes that Dean extends the Blade to him as an act of surrender, that the strong hand clutching at his shirt front seeks only his support in a moment of weakness. But the Mark won’t have it. _I'm sorry, Cas. I'm so sorry._ Dean pulls the angel to him and holds him close as the Blade slips easily between the ribs of the erstwhile Jimmy Novak.  
  
_“Tell me that you’ll stop. Tell me that you can stop.”_  
  
_“I will never stop.”_  
  
Tears streak Dean’s face as his friend, once his savior, falls. Dean goes to his knees with him, Cas’s body still held firm in his arms.  He doesn’t close his eyes as he slides the Blade free, forces himself to witness the clean, white light spilling from the gaping wound. It’s bright, but not blinding. Not like it should be. His hard-won grace is diminished now, tainted by too many battles on Earth and in Heaven. By too many years with the Winchesters. Wings that once spanned a country barn barely leave a trace as their shadow burns into the ground around them.  
  
Ice-blue eyes that came back from death, from insanity, from _humanity,_ close once more. Dean knows with absolute certainty that _this_ time, is the last time.

*************************************

 _My story began when I killed my brother, and that’s where your story inevitably will end._  
  
Dean watches Sam’s face as his brother stands in front of the makeshift altar he’s hastily constructed in the deepest, darkest corner of the bunker. Deeper even than the dungeon where they'd kept Crowley, Metatron, even Dean himself. The part of him that can still see humor, no matter how dark, laughs quietly at the fact that this time, there are no chains, no devil’s traps, no fear in Sam’s eyes as he prepares to save his brother once again. And there should be. Oh yes, there _should_ be.  
  
But something much more dangerous fills Sam’s eyes as he places a rune-covered silver chalice on the altar. Hope. Sam is hopeful, certain even, that he’s found a way to remove the curse from Dean’s arm. To rid him of the Mark of Cain once and for all. He’s spent weeks gathering the ingredients for the spell and the chalice, recovered yesterday from the tomb of a long-dead saint, is the final piece. Sam prays with all his heart he’s right about this.  
  
Dean knows he is.  
  
He’s known since the moment Sam called him in to the library, wide-eyed with excitement and chewing his lip bloody as he beckoned him to the ancient, moth-eaten book on the table in front of him.  
  
“Look at this, Dean."  
  
As he read over Sam’s shoulder, Dean knew his brother had found the answer. The _Mark_ knew. His arm began to tingle, then burn. A voice, no more than a whisper, began to tickle at the base of his brain. _Protect yourself._ The further he read, the more insistent the voice became. _Stop him. Protect yourself._ Dean’s fist clenched from the searing heat on his arm. He could see the glow of the Mark, even through the two layers of cloth that covered it, something that until now, only happened when he actually held the Blade in his hand. It pulsed with a soulless rhythm. _Stop him. Stop him. STOP HIM._  
  
If Sam wondered why Dean was breathing so hard, sweating despite the always-cool temperature of the library, he didn’t ask. It took everything Dean had to step away from the book, step away from his brother. He imagined the only reason the Mark let him was the fact that as Dean’s eyes roamed the list of items the spell required, he realized they would be next-to-impossible to find. He also imagined that the Mark was not the first supernatural entity to grievously underestimate Sam Winchester.  
  
However it happened, for the moment, the Mark cooled and the whispers quieted.  
  
Sam began his search and with each item he located, Dean’s arm ached a little more and the litany of the Mark grew louder. Dean knew he should tell Sam what was happening. He wanted to tell him. He _tried_ to tell him. But each _‘Don’t do it, Sam, don’t try to take this from me. It won’t let you.’_ came out instead as _‘Thanks for not giving up on me, Sammy.’_ Sam redoubled his efforts to save his big brother.  
  
_Protect yourself._  
  
Yesterday, Sam found the chalice.  
  
_Stop him._  
  
This morning, Dean killed Castiel.  
  
_Stophim Killhim._  
  
Now, Sam stands with his back to his brother, mixing the ingredients that will save Dean’s life, and Dean is going to kill him for it. Sam never turns around.  
  
Dean is screaming inside his head as he reaches under the tail of his shirt and draws the Blade from its sheath. It is still stained with Castiel’s blood and the smell of it makes his stomach lurch. _Please don’t make me do this. Please._ His arm burns and his hand trembles and his ears thrum with the Mark’s deadly song. _Stophim. Killhim. Killhim. Kill him._  
  
“Sam.”  
  
“Almost ready, Dean.” His excitement is palpable as he measures and pours the last ingredient into the chalice. He picks up the paper with the incantation, copied carefully from the archives of the church where the chalice was entombed. The words that will trigger the spell and free Dean from the curse. Sam smiles. Tears spill silently down Dean’s cheeks.  
  
“Sammy.” Dean’s left arm slips around Sam and his hand clamps over his mouth. He sweeps his free arm over the altar, sending the chalice and its contents crashing to the cold cement floor before bringing the Blade up to rest lightly at Sam's throat. “Can’t let you do it, little brother. We’re just going to stop this right here, yeah?” He squeezes Sam’s jaw for emphasis. Sam nods slightly and Dean’s hand slides off his mouth and down to his chin, tilting his head back to expose his neck.  
  
Despite the deadly threat in his voice, Sam can feel Dean’s whole body shuddering. His cheek is wet where it presses against Sam's hair. Whatever is happening here, Sam knows, on a primal level, that Dean is fighting it with all he has. Instinct, pure and simple is what stills whatever protest Sam thinks about making as the point of the Blade makes contact with the hollow of his throat. Instead, he reaches for the words that once called him back from killing his brother.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. I’m here.”  
  
Dean presses a little harder, feels the slight give as the Blade pierces Sam's skin, smells the warm, coppery scent of his brother’s blood as it trickles from the tiny wound. It is like fuel for the Mark, ratcheting up the need to spill more, now. He turns the Blade, draws it lightly across Sam’s throat, deep enough for a thin, red line to blossom along its length. Inside, Dean screams again.  
  
“You should’ve left it alone, Sammy.” Is what comes out of his mouth. _Please, please don’t make me do this. Not this, not Sam._ Is what he screams inside his head, the words echoing like distant thunder over the clarion call of the Mark.  
  
Stop him.  
  
_Please. Not this._  
  
Kill him _._  
  
_Not Sam._  
  
KILL HIM.  
  
_I’ll do anything._  
  
_Anything._  
  
The sweeping arc of the Blade casts a shadow dark enough to dim all the light Dean has ever known.  
  
And then there _is_ a clap of thunder. A crashing, deafening roar that shakes the room to its foundations, resounding endlessly until it drowns out everything but the sound of Dean’s own blood rushing in his ears.  
  
Dean drops to his knees, the Blade clattering to the floor. Sam falls with him. His mouth is working, but there is no sound now. No sound. _It’s okay, Dean._ The Mark stops burning.  
  
In the real world, thunder follows lightning. In whatever world the years have lead Dean Winchester to, up is down, right is wrong and lightning follows thunder. There is a blinding flash, the air crackles with ozone and the scent of something... old. And silence falls.  
  
_“Please. Oh God, please. I'll do anything.”_

****************************************

Dean sits on the floor with his brother’s head cradled in his lap. He wets his thumb and wipes away a smudge from the corner of Sam’s mouth. Reflex, he supposes, instinct born of a childhood spent caring for his baby brother. Wiping away traces of baby formula, chocolate, tears. He tries to recall the first time it was blood he cleaned off his brother’s face.  He only has to look down to recall the last.  
  
_Sammy._ The sound of his name is a punishment now, a prayer, _I’m so sorry,_ a benediction.  
  
“What does _anything_ mean to you, Dean Winchester?”  
  
Dean is broken in ways he never dreamed possible, void of whatever he might need to feel any kind of surprise to find an old, black man with a stern, weathered face and salt  & pepper beard sitting cross-legged in front of him. His rheumy brown eyes are neither kind nor unkind, but his voice is sympathetic and Dean is unafraid. He recognizes him.  
  
“You're the gardener.”  
  
Joshua doesn’t quite smile but his face softens. “You remembered. But you haven’t answered my question.”  
  
Dean looks down at Sam, pale and still. _What does it matter now?_  
  
“Anything.” Instinctively, he draws his brother more fully onto his lap, wrapping him in his arms. When he is able, he chokes out the words. “Everything. I would have given everything.”  
  
Joshua nods. “You did that once. Gave your life for his.”  
  
The old man rises with unexpected grace and extends a hand down to Dean. Before he can decide whether or not to take it, he’s on his feet and the scenery has changed. They are in an old, run-down cabin with graying walls and cracked, grimy windows. The air is scented with greasy fried chicken, stale liquor and unfathomable grief. Dean sees himself on a hard wooden chair with his head in his hands and his heart bleeding out on the floor next to his dead brother.  
  
“Sammy.” Somehow it hurts even more to say his name here in this place.  
  
“This is where it began, Dean. Everything that came to pass... the breaking of the seals, the destruction of Heaven, the loss of your friends. This…” Joshua casts his gaze toward the tattered, dirty mattress that bears Sam’s body. His head still rests at the boneless angle Dean remembers, but now the long column of his throat is marred by the improbably thin, crimson line that runs across it.  “It all began right here.”  
  
Dean watches himself break down, hears himself telling Sam the story of their lives, of his big brother’s promise to keep him safe, and of his abject sorrow that he had failed him _. How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do? Sammy..._  
  
“What am I supposed to do?” Dean cries now as he did then, the added years only sharpening his agony. He flinches when the chair tips and crashes to the floor behind Then-Dean, and again when the cabin door slams shut behind him.  
    
“I ask again, Dean. You said that you would do anything. What does that mean to you?”  
  
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away the useless tears. He’s tired - more tired than he can ever remember being - and his patience with the hosts of Heaven and their enigmatic bullshit ran out years ago.  
  
“How about we just cut to the chase. Tell me what we’re doing here. Can you save my brother? Because I’ve had just about enough of heavenly games. Just... do whatever it is you’re gonna do. Help me, smite me, throw me into the fucking sun. I don’t... I... I can't.” Dean drops to his knees and lets his head fall onto the still, cold chest of his brother. "I can't."  
  
Joshua's gaze turns dark and Dean braces himself - for what, he’s not exactly sure. The old man frowns, but then his eyes go soft again. “I like you, Dean. I always have, in spite of your rather disrespectful tongue.” He moves slowly around Sam’s body, righting the chair that Then-Dean has just deserted. He sits and folds his hands together in his lap, then leans back, considering Dean for another long moment before he speaks.  
  
"I think you got a bad deal."  
  
This brings Dean's head up again, but he can't stop the snort of derision that bubbles up in his throat. "You think?" His eyes slide towards the door and he wonders if Then-Dean has reached the crossroads yet. The first deal, but not the worst one. He rubs absently at his forearm, looks down at Sam. Yeah. Definitely not the worst.  
  
"Would it surprise you to know that God thinks so, too?"  
  
At that, Dean laughs outright. "Really? Well, that’s fantastic. Would he like a stuffed bear?"  
  
Joshua shakes his head and narrows his eyes a little, but Dean is beyond caring. He shakes his head right back at the gardener. "Your _God_ was willing to let the world burn because he was too busy off smelling the fucking roses. Remember? He let _Sammy_ burn. He let all our friends die... Pastor Jim, Ellen, Jo, Kevin... Bobby. He let the angels fall. And when I tried to make it right, he let his weasely little scribe _kill me_. And you expect me to believe that all of a sudden, he thinks I got a raw deal? That's rich."  
  
"All those things are true, and they all began here. With you, Dean Winchester. But there is one more truth that you seem to be overlooking."  
  
Dean drops his head into his hands, suddenly tired again. "Yeah? What's that?"  
  
"He sent me here, Dean. God sent me here to answer your prayer."  
  
"What prayer? I never..." _Oh God, please._ "Oh."  
  
"So I'll ask you for the last time.. What does _anything_ mean to you? What are you willing to sacrifice to change the future?" The old man looks pointedly at Sam and then back at Dean, who stares at him now, slack-jawed. He waves his hand again, and the scenery changes once more.  
  
_Sam! Sam, look out! Nooo!_  
  
"Why?" Dean's voice is every bit as wrecked as it was the first time, lost in the image of his brother dying on his knees in the cold, South Dakota dirt. “Why would you bring me here?"  
  
"Because I _can,_ Dean." Joshua clasps his shoulder, shakes him into the now again. "I can bring you here. I can give you another chance – an opportunity to make things right. None of your friends have to suffer for the choice you made here. _Sam_ doesn't have to suffer."  
  
Another sweep of his arm and they are back in the cabin. Then-Dean takes a long pull on the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey. Dean aches to snatch it from his hands. The sound of Bobby's voice cuts into his soul, then and now. It brings him to his knees again, and this time he knows he's never getting back up.  
  
_Dean, I hate to bring this up, I really do. But don't you think maybe it's time we bury Sam?_  
  
“Yes or no, Dean. Are you willing to change history? Can you make the sacrifice?”  
  
Dean reaches out a shaking hand and brushes the back of his knuckles over Sam’s cheek. It’s smooth, soft as a baby’s beneath the light stubble. Sam was still so young then - as young as either of them were ever allowed to be anyway. He deserved so much more from this life. They both did.  
  
He would be lying if he said he’d never thought about it - what he might do if he could go back in time.  
  
Dean knows that he has made some bad choices along the way. Decisions that have cost more than he ever imagined. Far too many people have paid the price. In his mind’s eye he sees them all. Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Pamela… the countless souls lost to the demons that escaped the Hell’s Gate. Kevin. Castiel.  
  
But he also knows in his soul that he would always, _always_ choose to save his brother. Only, maybe saving him didn’t have to mean dealing away his own life. Maybe, they could both be saved. Maybe, just this once, he could save everyone.  
  
Dean raises his eyes to Joshua, slowly nodding his head. “Yes.”  
  
Joshua smiles. He pulls Dean to his feet and begins to sweep his arm once more, but Dean stops him before the world turns again. He has a brief vision of another moment in time when he said yes. He had conditions then, too. Dean squares his shoulders and holds the angel’s arm fast.  
  
“I meant what I said. I would give anything to change what happened today. What happened... then. All of that’s on me. All of it. I know that. I want the chance to make it right. I want to go back. But this...” Dean’s eyes sweep the room once more and then focus, laser sharp, on the angel. “You’re wrong about this. It didn’t begin here.”

********************************************

“Your dad? He’s in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat-suit. He’s gonna tear you apart. He’s gonna taste the iron in your blood.”  
  
“Let him go, or I swear to God...”  
  
“What? What are you and God gonna do? See, as far as I’m concerned, this is justice.” The demon steps right up to Dean,  so close that he can smell the sulphur on its breath. “You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter.”  
  
“Who, Meg?”  
  
“The one in the alley? That was my boy. You understand?”  
  
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”  
  
“What, you’re the only one who can have a family? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family?” Pain flashes across Dean’s face and the demon smiles. “Ohhh. That’s right, I forgot. I did. Still, two wrongs don’t make a right.”  
  
Dean snarls. “You sonofabitch.”  
  
Sam's voice breaks in, “I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?”  
  
“You mean why’d I kill Mommy and pretty little Jess?” It’s Sam’s question but the demon keeps his eyes on Dean as it answers, its words cutting deeper than whatever force it is that keeps the boys pinned to the wall.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You know, he never told you this, but Sam was gonna ask her to marry him. Been shopping for rings and everything.” Dean swallows that without flinching, more concerned with how to bring the attention back on him as the demon gets up in his brother’s face.  “You wanna know why? Because they got in the way.”  
  
“In the way of what?”  
  
“My plans for you, Sammy. You, and all the children like you.”  
  
Dean speaks again. “Listen, you mind just getting this over with, huh? ‘Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing.”  
  
As he hoped, the demon rounds on him again. “Funny, but that’s all part of your M.O., isn’t it? Mask all that nasty pain. Mask the truth.”  
  
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”  
  
“You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is? They don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam? He’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight? It’s more concern than he’s ever shown you.”  
  
It’s remarkably easy for Dean to hide behind a defiant sneer this time - after all, it’s nothing he hasn’t told himself in his darker moments. “I bet you’re real proud of your kids, too, huh? Oh wait, I forgot,” he mimics the bastard’s own words back to him, “I wasted ‘em.”  
  
The demon’s eyes snap with pure, unadulterated rage as he leans away from Dean, only to find it reflected back at him in equal measure. Malevolent yellow eyes lock with blazing green and Sam gasps behind them as their hatred for each other sucks all the oxygen from the room. The demon takes a step back and lowers its head. When it rises again, Dean grunts in pain and Sam shouts.  
  
“Dean, no!”  
  
“Now,” Dean says, and he feels Joshua’s hand squeeze gently on his shoulder. “Do it now.”  
  
He feels a sharp tug on his body. Like an elastic band pulled taut and then released, he snaps forward and into the younger version of himself pinned against the wall like a bug. The pain is instantaneous and every bit as excruciating as he remembers. But in the years that have passed since he felt it the first time, Dean has endured much, much worse. He could take this now without flinching, but Sam needs to see it. He needs to understand: they can’t allow the demon to leave this room.  
  
Dean chokes out a tortured moan, then begs, “Dad! Dad, don’t you let it kill me.”  
  
The demon continues to tear at him from the inside out without mercy. Dean is careful not to let it see his eyes now, not to let it see who it is really dealing with.  
  
Sam struggles to escape the invisible bonds that hold him, calls Dean’s name again. The demon squeezes harder. Dean cries out in agony.  
He feels his consciousness slipping as his lifeblood pours out of the unseen wounds the demon is inflicting, but he fights it now as he wasn’t able to then.  
  
“Dad… please.” Dean lets his head fall forward and waits. He knows there will only be seconds between the moment John makes his desperate plea, and Sam retrieving the Colt.  
  
“Stop. Stop it.”  
  
Dean raises his head again. There is a heartbeat, maybe two when their eyes meet, a father and his first-born son, and Dean believes, he _knows_ that John sees him, really sees him, and understands. _Goodbye, Dad._  
  
The demon’s hold on him momentarily broken, Sam scrambles for the Colt. By the time the demon turns on him, Sam already has it aimed directly between his father’s eyes.  
  
“Kill me, you kill Daddy.”  
  
“I know,” Sam says, and puts a bullet in John’s leg.  
  
John falls to the floor and so does Dean. Sam steps over his father to get to Dean.  
  
“Dean? Dean, hey? Oh God, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”  
  
“Where’s Dad?”  
  
“He’s right here. He’s right here, Dean.”  
  
Dean is struggling for breath now. He’s been through hell, literally. He can take more torture than any ten men, but even Dean Winchester can’t withstand being practically drained of blood. He has to make Sam understand and he has to do it now.  
  
“Go check on him.”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
_“Go check on him.”_  
  
Sam does.  
  
“Dad? Dad?”  
  
“Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. You shoot me. You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son! Do it now!”  
  
Sam points the gun once more, this time at the center of his father’s chest. His hands are shaking but his aim is true.  Dean wants to beg him not to do it, just as he did then. He didn’t want to lose either of them, but even more, he didn’t want Sam to live with the knowledge that he killed their father. In the thousands of days Dean has had to think about this moment, he’s come to realize that his father was already dead. The demon killed him just as surely as it’d killed their mother – it just took him nearly twenty-three years to lay down.  
  
Dean prays with all his heart that someday, he’ll be able to make Sam see it too. He takes a ragged breath and implores his little brother. “Do it, Sam. You have to do it.”  
  
“You’ve gotta hurry! I can’t hold onto it much longer! You shoot me, son! Shoot me! Son, I’m begging you! We can end this here and now! Sammy!”  
  
Sam’s whole body is trembling now, his eyes swimming with tears, but the gun never wavers from its mark.  
  
“It’s okay, Sam.” Dean gasps with what little breath he has left.  
  
The sickly yellow lightning that crackles through the demon in its death throes is the last thing Dean sees before the darkness takes him.

***************************************

He becomes aware of the world again one heartbeat at a time. He is surrounded by machines, one breathing for him, one taking measure of its continued success in staccato beeps. His skin is an unhealthy shade of gray and there are IV’s taped to both arms. Sam stands at his bedside, nearly as pale. Only the constant worrying of his lower lip in his teeth makes him less still than his brother.

"You can't go man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again."  
  
Dean watches from the doorway and for one horrifying moment, he is convinced that nothing has changed.  
  
But then he notices the smaller details. His face, pale as it may be, is unmarred. No jagged scar on his forehead from twenty tons of eighteen-wheeler bouncing him off the windows of his car. Sammy has a decent shiner from his brawl in the alley, but all the small cuts and bruises he had when Dean woke up the first time are missing now.    
  
And beside him in the doorway, the angel Joshua looks on solemnly.  
  
Dean convulses, arching up off the bed. An alarm sounds on the monitor and Sam nearly bites clean through his lip as a nurse rushes in and pushes him to the side.  She glances at the monitor and then hits a button that brings the doctor and another nurse hurrying into the room.  
  
“This is it then. I’m dying?” Dean asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question. It’s what he expected and he’s okay with it. Sam is alive and whole. He knows there are myriad other evil things in the world still, but Dean feels certain that their curse is over. The chain of events that lead them to Cold Oak, to Detroit and beyond is broken.  
   
Dean only regrets the abject fear etched on his brother’s face and the knowledge that he’s going to leave him alone in the world. He turns to Joshua, ready and willing to give his life for the gift he’s been given today. He doesn’t really expect to find the bastard smiling about it though. Fucking angels.  
  
“No Dean, you’re not dying. Not today anyway. Look...” Joshua tilts his chin toward the flurry of activity around Dean’s bed.  
  
“What’s happening?” Sam asks desperately, “Oh god, Dean!”  
  
One of the nurses steps away and takes Sam by the arms. “It’s all right, hon, it’s okay. He’s fighting the ventilator.” Sam’s eyes go even wider than they already are and she squeezes his arms reassuringly. “It’s a _good_ thing, sweetie. Your brother is waking up.”  
  
Dean looks to Joshua once again, hardly daring to believe what he’s seeing. “I don’t get it. I’m waking up? What’s the catch? Am I brain damaged? Paralyzed? What?" His eyes narrow at the angel with suspicion. "There’s always a price with you people. I’m gonna have amnesia or something, right? Forget everything I ever knew?”  
  
The angel only smiles again and Dean wonders briefly if it’s a tinge of regret he sees in the old man’s eyes.  Joshua reaches out and squeezes his shoulder and Dean feels that peculiar tug again, as though he’s being stretched too tight.  
  
“You’re right Dean, there is always a price to pay, but forgetting isn’t yours.” He lets go of Dean’s shoulder and cups his cheek instead. “It’s remembering.”  
  
There’s an audible snap this time and then Dean is sitting up in the bed, coughing and gagging as the doctor slides the tube out of his throat. “Easy, son, we’ve got you. Try to take nice, slow breaths for me.” Dean’s eyes sweep the room, half expecting to see an old black man lurking in the doorway. Instead they find the wide, wet eyes of his brother, seeking his own. Dean thinks the relief, the gratitude, the love shining out at him is possibly the greatest thing he’s ever seen. It’s everything.  
  
“Sammy.”  
  
“Dean.”

***********************************

The room is dark and quiet when Dean opens his eyes again. The machines and all but one IV are gone and he’s breathing with only the help of a nasal prom. Sam is folded into a ridiculously small chair at his bedside. Dean shifts somewhat stiffly in the bed and Sam is instantly aware.  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, sitting up.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
They are silent again for a few moments, and then Sam runs his tongue over the split in his bottom lip and drags his chair a little closer to the bed. “Dad’s... gone.”  
  
Dean nods. “I know.”  
  
Neither of them say they are sorry. The word is too small.  
  
“The demon is dead.”  
  
Dean nods again. Another long moment passes and then Sam nods, too.  
  
“We’re gonna be okay, Dean.”  
  
Dean’s eyes slide down to his arm, to the IV line in the crease of his right elbow. The skin beneath the strips of tape is pale and smooth. Unscarred. And for maybe the first time since he was four years old, Dean Winchester breathes easy.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. We’re gonna be okay.”  
  
~End


End file.
